


Corrected

by temperamental_mistress



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Dermatillomania, Gen, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Trichotillomania
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 01:12:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4686674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temperamental_mistress/pseuds/temperamental_mistress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Combeferre has been known to complete and correct Enjolras, he sometimes needs someone to stop him from attempting to "correct" himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Corrected

Courfeyrac was no stranger to Combeferre’s peculiar behavior.

When he was feeling particularly stressed, Combeferre would arrive at the Musain and struggle to choose a seat. It was a subtle struggle, one that was almost impossible to notice if it wasn’t being looked for. Courfeyrac had learned to recognize the hesitation in Combeferre’s face so that he might pull out a chair and immediately offer it to him to stop the struggle before it began. They never spoke of it.

There were days when he would find Combeferre buried in his notes, completely absorbed in his work. Closer inspection would reveal that his friend had rewritten the same sentence a dozen times over, crossing it out repeatedly, yet making no changes from one instance to the next. Courfeyrac would step in with a glass of wine and a story to coax Combeferre out of this repetition, only allowing him to return to his work once he’d managed a smile. They never discussed it.

He had become a master of quietly assisting Combeferre through whatever it was that plagued him, never failing to restore him to his usual self before they retired for the night.

It was after an exceptionally stressful week, in which Combeferre had begun to look more run down with every passing moment, that Courfeyrac began to question his skills. Nothing he tried seemed to have any effect.

Even when offered a chair, Combeferre refused to sit for nearly an hour, choosing instead to drift around the room from one conversation to the next. When he finally settled at a table, no amount of wine or storytelling could pull him from his frustrated scribbling. Still Courfeyrac persisted, watching the med student intently from across the table. As Combeferre moved on to his third sheet of paper, Courfeyrac opted for a more direct approach.

“That’s an odd new fashion you’re sporting. Whatever inspired it?”

“Hm?” Combeferre startled slightly, ink bleeding into his page unbidden. He glanced up, but did not remove his entire attention from his work.

Courfeyrac pointed to his own face, “Your eyebrow. Have you misplaced it?”

Combeferre lifted a hand immediately to cover the place where his right eyebrow had once been, flustered. The thick brow had been reduced to a handful of thin strands that barely resembled the one on the other side of his face. “Ah…it’s nothing. It was an experiment that didn’t quite turn out as planned. Homemade gunpowder is tricky, you understand.”

Courfeyrac forced a smile and a laugh, recognizing the lie for what it was. There were no scorch marks on his face, and no lingering scent of burnt hair. Without another word, he finally permitted Combeferre to return to his work undisturbed, and rose to seek out Joly.

He found the other medical student contentedly settled with a glass of wine, observing a game of dominoes. Courfeyrac pulled a chair up beside him, speaking without hesitation.

“Something is wrong with Combeferre.”

Joly looked up from his wine and turned to look across the room at the other man, who was once again bent over his ink-splotched pages. He shook his head after a moment, “It’s an attack of nerves.”

It was Joly’s calm that set Courfeyrac to worrying, “He’s missing an eyebrow. You cannot mean to tell me—“

Again, Joly shook his head, “It will grow back before long.” Still, he stole another glance in Combeferre’s direction, his expression unreadable.

Courfeyrac threw up his hands in frustration and decided to switch tactics.

 

* * *

 

Enjolras had needed no convincing. A quick, whispered promise was all it took to soothe Courfeyrac’s worry, and the matter was put to rest until the rest of the group had retired for the evening. Having gathered up the collection of papers and notes he was using to draft his current speech, Enjolras crossed the room to attend to his friend.

“May I join you?”

Combeferre startled for perhaps the dozenth time that evening, nearly dropping his pen. His features softened momentarily upon seeing Enjolras’s face. “Yes, of course. You know you need never ask.”

Enjolras smiled and took a seat across the table. For a time, they worked in companionable silence, each buried in their own thoughts and work. Once certain that Combeferre had settled back into his writing, Enjolras watched his friend carefully, as discreetly as could be managed in such close quarters. At first, he saw nothing out of the ordinary in his friend’s behavior, save perhaps that Combeferre was a bit more forceful with his pen than was strictly necessary. It wasn’t long, however, before Enjolras began to recognize other signs of building anxiety — the constant bouncing of his leg beneath the table like the roll of a snare drum was particularly difficult to ignore.

It was when Combeferre began to pull at the hairs of his left eyebrow that Enjolras set his pen down entirely.

“Ferre,” he spoke softly, hoping not to startle the other man, but there was no response. “Combeferre.”

“Hm?” the hand did not retreat as he looked up.

“My friend, something worries you.”

Combeferre shook his head and attempted to turn back to his writing, “It’s nothing.”

“You have one eyebrow less than you did yesterday. It is not nothing.”

Combeferre froze, fingers still clinging to the dark hair on his brow, “It’s not…” his gaze skittered away, looking anywhere but at Enjolras, “It’s not…I…”

He could see his friend’s frustration building quickly, but Enjolras said nothing. This was not the first time he had watched Combeferre’s careful calm disintegrate. He knew interrupting would only make it worse.

It was several minutes before Combeferre regained the ability to speak, and not without pulling out several strands of hair from his remaining eyebrow. “It has been a very long week.”

Enjolras nodded and extended a hand across the table, “Would it help to discuss it?”

Combeferre pulled his hand away from his face at last, and took the offered hand, long fingers curling around Enjolras’s palm, “Perhaps.”

Again, Enjolras nodded, and proceeded to run his thumb over the tense, ink-stained hand he now held. He was careful to avoid the tiny, half-healed spots where the skin had been picked away. “Then I am here to listen, if you wish.”

Combeferre did not speak, but the lines in his face began to retreat as Enjolras continued his quiet ministrations. In time, he returned to his writing, but did not retrieve his hand. Not another word passed between the pair that evening.

 

* * *

 

When Combeferre arrived at the Musain the next evening, looking significantly more like his usual self, Courfeyrac simply smiled and pulled out the chair beside him. They did not speak of the day before.

**Author's Note:**

> I sometimes entertain a very self-indulgent head canon for Combeferre having obsessive-compulsive disorder. Not the stereotypical variety with constant hand washing or neatly stacked belongings, but an irrational obsession with “right” and “wrong”, "correct" and "incorrect". Sometimes an eyebrow feels “wrong” and it has to be removed to rid the body of that “wrong” feeling. I don’t think I’ve ever read a fic where a character suffered from compulsive skin-picking/hair pulling, and I suppose I just really wanted to see a bit of myself represented in the world.


End file.
